Page 116 of Mine

I love you anyway . . .

I suddenly feel like I’m going to throw up. I lunge to the bathroom and gag several times, but nothing comes out.

Swallowing the spit, I return to the room and begin pacing to distract the feeling of death inside me, which has become a natural state of my body since Sabine died.

At two in the morning, my legs can’t take another pivot in this godforsaken room, and my thoughts can’t take another second of mulling over my mistakes.

Instead of replaying every word Sabine ever said to me, I decide to do something about it, focusing on her advice: You need a journal. Start writing out your feelings. No one has to read it; it will just give you an outlet.

I grab the notebook from my bag, a pen from the side pocket, and drop onto the world’s stiffest couch. I pick up the black sweatshirt, press it to my nose, inhale, then set it on my lap.

After another deep breath, I begin writing a letter to Sabine, the first of what I fear will be many over the coming months.

Dear Butterfly,

My heart aches for you. Every hour, every minute, every second.

When I close my eyes, I see your face, I hear you, I smell you, for you have been forever imprinted on my soul.

But I can’t see you.

I can’t hear you.

I can’t smell you.

I can’t touch you.

The absence of you is felt in the vacancy of my soul. In the death that now resides in my body, the nothingness that has become as much me as my beating heart, in the hole that materialized inside me the moment you left.

The moment I failed you.

The moment I failed myself.

The moment I died inside ...

“Astor.”

I startle at the sound of Valerie’s voice. My gaze shoots up from the notebook, and I realize I’ve been crying.

I close the notebook and jump up, quickly wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand.

“Yes?” I rush to her side. “Are you okay?”

Valerie slowly turns her head. Though she’s looking at me, there is no focus. It’s like she’s looking right through me. Still, I get the sick feeling that she knows.

“Who was she?” she whispers.

She knows.

What do I say? Her name was Sabine. She was my beautiful butterfly.

“Who was she?” Valerie whispers again.

My love.

My light.

My reason for breathing.

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